


Cold

by LadyOneiroi



Category: Call of Duty
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Nova 6, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 07:45:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5700553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyOneiroi/pseuds/LadyOneiroi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nikita has always said his blood runs hot. For the brute, it is enough to keep him from shuddering back from the distance before them. He will endure. He always has.<br/>Nikita, he is not so sure about.<br/>{Dragovich/Kravchenko, Project Nova-timeline. Written for PD on tumblr.}</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold

It is not that he does not know the cold. Lev has always known the bite of it, landscapes so endlessly white that in boyhood he thought it must have been true blindness. For as far back as his memory extends, he has always been out in the Russian winter, running errands for his father, and once he was too old for that it was fighting in the snow. The colonel understands snow better than any of these Germans hiding out in it.

It is not that he lacks understanding. It is that he has never known a cold this bitter.

He trains himself not to mind it. Lev does not rub his hands together, nor does he stomp his feet as many of the others do. Nikita has always said his blood runs hot. For the brute, it is enough to keep him from shuddering back from the distance before them. He will endure. He always has.

Nikita, he is not so sure about. He keeps his composure as best he can, jaw set, the same haughty expression that Lev committed to memory long before plain on his face. Nikita cuts an imposing figure, even with an ushanka he refuses to pull down far enough to truly be of help. There is too much pride in his companion for Lev to offer him his scarf, or indeed anything. It would be an argument waiting to happen. It would waste heat, their mouths open so often to snipe at each other with words rather than bullets.

Lev watches as Nikita pulls out a cigarette he has no doubt bullied off of one of the younger gunners. Bullying is not the word, he realizes. Nikita has always had a presence, needing only to stand and offer that genuine smile, the one men tremble at the sight of. Nikita is a gentleman. He does not need threats, only a few words and Lev’s presence. Regardless of how he obtained the hastily wrapped cigarette, the tall man lights it, inhaling the taste of it.

Gray eyes never leave the tiny flame, watching its birth and all too sudden death with interest. Even a fire this small is a commodity in the Arctic. It takes him too long to look away, longer still to realize his focus is now on Nikita’s lips. He can feel Nikita looking at him, bears witness to the smirk pulling at chapped lips.

He does not say that Nikita’s teeth are chattering, that his breath was coming out in plumes long before he ever took a drag. They both know how cold it is. They both know Nikita will not dare to show weakness, even to the elements. It does not benefit him to do so.

Nikita tries to set his jaw. Lev swears he can almost hear the chattering of teeth over the wind. In this place, they seem miles away from anyone else. Certainly, Lev knows there is no one in their line of sight. Nikita’s pride will survive, he is sure.

Lev’s fingers are long and thick, but precise. He plucks the cigarette from Nikita’s lips deftly, seeming to draw out all his companion’s smoke and air in the movement. Protest is smothered, lips silencing Nikita’s words before they can pass from between his cracked lips, so that warm breath enters his mouth rather than the frozen air that surrounds them. Nikita holds that movement, hoards it, and Lev cannot say he minds it. He has always known the other man to be possessive. It has never been an issue yet.

Nikita holds, for as long as he can, until he is left bereft. Lev pulls back with the aftertaste of smoke in his mouth, standing as straight and proper as if he had only been trying to ensure his superior heard him over the wind a moment before. It is a good excuse for closeness, in this place, where he has seen many of his men huddled for warmth like gossips. One must have finally broken away, though, the catalyst for the end of Lev’s use.

There is someone approaching, no doubt ready to tell the pair that Reznov’s company have finally shown up for their punishment.

Nikita’s teeth are silent in his mouth, stationary. Even as he is left wanting more, Lev is at least satisfied that he has achieved his goal. If this boy gaining on them should ask about the smile on his face, the only excuse he will have is that he could wrest the cigarette from his better.

The sharp sting of nicotine in his mouth is sweetened by the taste Nikita left behind.

**Author's Note:**

> I return to you all after an impromptu hiatus... as COD trash. I'll of course still be writing Outsiders and DOSAB fic, but don't be alarmed if you see some new fandoms mixed in as well! This... happens to be one of them as I am trash of the thing.
> 
> Can be found under the same name on FF.net, and was originally published on one of my tumblr rp blogs.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading!


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